Harry Potter and The Vanishing Isle
by Anya2
Summary: CHPT 5 ADDED AND OTHER CHAPTERS REVISED!!! Mysterious figures wandering around Hogwarts late at night can only mean trouble. And don't you just know Harry and Co. are going to get involved! But could Dumbledore really be the enemy this time?
1. Figures In The Dark

Author's Notes: I started writing this after reading the first book and so it's set during Harry's second year at Hogwarts. Which I guess makes it kind of AU. Although it could possibly be squeezed in between the time after the Chamber Of Secrets and the end of the year......  
  
As we all know, I don't own any of the familiar characters. They are all the property of the very talented J.K. Rowling, who I would like to thank for giving me such a wonderful world to play in....  
  
As always, please R+R. Authors must be fed!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry Potter and the Tale Of The Vanishing Isle  
  
  
  
FIGURES IN THE DARK  
  
Hogwarts should be a creepy place at the best of times, let alone the dead of night when all was silent and deathly still. The castle had the appearance of something that had been lifted straight from one of the Grimm fairytales. The large, imposing stone structure was a myriad of towers and corridors and staircases, each filled with things that were fantastical but still chilling. Who wouldn't feel uncomfortable in the presence of paintings who moved, ghosts, dungeons, cunning traps and a forest full of nightmare creatures?  
  
Well, Harry Potter for one.  
  
Somehow, from the moment he had set foot in Hogwarts he had felt more at home here than he ever had in his eleven years at the Dursley's. The world of magic was in his blood, and despite some of the terrifying things which had happened to him since he'd found out he was a wizard, he found himself relatively content with life. So why he was lying here bolt awake was a mystery.  
  
It was unusual for Harry not to sleep, especially after Quidditch practise. Whoever would have thought that flying around on broomsticks could be so tiring?  
  
Harry was small for his age - he always had been. Maybe living under the stairs had stunted his growth....Being so slight, he had hardly played any sport during his years in Muggle school. The other boys didn't want him on their teams. Not only did he look as if a sharp gust of wind would be enough to knock him over, but Dudley hated him, and everyone was afraid to go against Dudley.  
  
So, whilst Harry was nimble and quick, he had never grown very strong. Perfectly suited for a Quidditch Seeker as it turned out. Even so, what he wouldn't give sometimes to be a little taller and a couple of pounds heavier. Maybe the Malfoys and Dudleys of this world would leave him be then.  
  
Perhaps he could learn a body-building spell.  
  
He smiled. Or maybe he'd just a eat a lot and get fat. If he didn't like it, he could always magic it all away again. His smile turned to a grin. Could be fun.  
  
Deciding that sleep seemed to have no desire to come to him, he sat up. Kicking away the covers, he pulled on his dressing gown and slippers, protecting him from the icy wind and stone floor. He carried his 'Quidditch Through The Ages' book to the window and ensconced himself in the arch, using his knees as a place to rest the book. There was no need to wake Ron and the others by putting a light on. Moonlight would do well enough.  
  
He was still half way through reading the tale of longest match in history. Three months it had lasted. One of the Keepers - Emelia Logan - had actually missed her wedding because they were still playing. Harry wore a little satisfied smile as he read, the notion occurring to him that he was probably a better Seeker than those he was reading about. No game he'd been involved in had ever lasted that long. He'd never been exceptionally good at anything before. In fact, he'd always been rather average in all aspects. It was nice to have something to be a little big headed about.  
  
Annoyingly, he didn't seem able to lose himself in the book the way he usually could. Whatever had prevented him sleeping was still there. He was aware of a disturbance in his concentration. Something bothering him which he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Eventually admitting defeat, he lowered the book from his eyes and frowned, scrunching the scar on his forehead. Glancing around, nothing seemed to be amiss. Everything was normal. Well, as normal as it got when you were in a centuries old, haunted castle, training to be a wizard.  
  
Ron was snoring slightly but he'd gotten used to that by now.  
  
A few more moments of inspection revealed more nothing. He sighed. It was probably his imagination. Considering all he'd seen, it was hardly surprising that it would be a little over active at times. Either that or it was Peeves playing some sort of trick. The poltergeist had been given strong warnings not to disturb the students while they were sleeping, but since when did he do as he was told?  
  
The book had almost lured his attention once more, when a movement out of the corner of his eye captured it instead. His head snapped sharply to the left, the book dropping quietly, forgotten, from his grip. He peered straight out of his dormitory window into the pitch black night. The grounds were quiet and deserted. The night sky cloudless and starlit. The moon sat serenely watching over it all. The perfect picture of a perfect night at Hogwarts. And yet, something was wrong.  
  
Casting his gaze around, he allowed it to settle on the structure directly opposite the dormitory. It was one of the tall towers that seemed to randomly litter Hogwarts. This one was not the grandest, or largest, or tallest. As far as he was aware, the rooms inside were abandoned or used for storage - there were no classrooms there and no teacher he knew of had an office in such a place.  
  
And so it startled him to see a figure moving about. Half one in the morning wasn't a time that anyone would usually be wandering the school halls, let alone an uninhabited section.  
  
Craning to get a better look, his errant sense of curiosity shining through as always, he pressed his nose flat up against the glass. The figure was gliding gently along, but there was nothing placid about the movement. It was sneaking and sly. As if whoever it was knew they weren't meant to be there and were fearful of discovery. They walked in the dark, and the only illumination the stark moonlight. Harry could see nothing more but silhouettes and shadows. But it was enough to make out one horribly familiar detail.  
  
The figure was wearing a large, black, hooded cloak. 


	2. A Restless Night

A RESTLESS NIGHT  
  
Professor McGonagall glared harshly at Harry who unsuccessfully tried to stifle his fifth yawn in as many minutes.  
  
Shaking his head sharply, Harry attempted to force his tired mind into a state of alertness. Or at least something a kin to one, which would hopefully prevent McGonagall from putting him in detention for not paying attention in class.  
  
On one side of him, Hermione looked a him scoldingly, while on the other side, Ron, appeared a mixture of bemused and concerned. They had both said at breakfast how tired he looked.  
  
"Well, then," Professor McGonagall's distinctive Scottish lilt said, "Who would like to reiterate 'Roland's Doctrine Of The Transfiguration Of Sentient Beings' which we have covered today?"  
  
She said the last bit with emphasis, clearly stating her intent towards anyone who didn't know.  
  
Harry's stomach sank as he knew what was coming next.  
  
"Mr Potter?" she asked, shrilly, fixating him with a gaze.  
  
Harry was sure he was exhibiting a remarkable impression of the deer caught in the headlights. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione straining to hold her hand as high as it would go without her actually standing. Despite her clear eagerness however, McGonagall did not advert her gaze from him. She raised a curious eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest, obviously willing to wait for whatever answer he was going to give.  
  
"Well," he stalled, wondering if perhaps in some moment of inspiration the answer would come to him, "Roland's Doctrine Of The Transfiguration Of Sentient Beings' is.....".  
  
No, his mind was still blank.  
  
"Well, it says that.....you......you shouldn't......", he offered, racking his mind to try and decide what a fourteenth century witch would have had to say about transfiguration.  
  
He guessed that the 'shouldn't' part was right at least. All these rules seemed to be connected to what you shouldn't do. It seemed as if they spent far too much of their time learning what they weren't allowed to do.  
  
"Shouldn't what?" McGonagall prompted.  
  
Harry grimaced and took the plunge. "Do it?" he said, more a question than a statement.  
  
A mixture of suppressed giggles from other students, and the frosting of McGonagall's stare convinced him that maybe that wasn't right.  
  
Wordlessly, she turned her gaze to Hermione, "Miss Granger?"  
  
"Roland stated that the transfiguration of sentient beings, which are not aware of what is to happen to them, is dangerous because the stress and shock is enough to kill," Hermione stated, parrot fashion, as if she had committed the class to memory, word by word. She probably had.  
  
McGonagall smiled, pleased, "Yes, quite."  
  
Then the bell thankfully rang for the end of class.  
  
Harry hurriedly collected his things together, hoping to slip away in the anonymity of the bustle of other students. Ron seemed to have the same idea in mind, because he was doing his best to stand between Harry and McGonagall, hoping that if she couldn't see him, she'd forget. But it wasn't to be.  
  
"Mr Potter?"  
  
Harry's face screwed up in a grimace, as though he'd just been stung, and he turned slowly to look at McGonagall.  
  
"A moment please," she said sternly, beckoning him to her desk as she sat behind it.  
  
Ron gave him a sympathetic look, tinged with a hint of 'rather you than me'. Hermione's face simply said 'well what do you expect?'  
  
By the time Harry had slowly trudged over to her desk, the classroom had emptied. He stood there in trepidation for a few tense moments, believing he might be the one to die of stress if she didn't speak soon.  
  
Finishing reading the paper in front of her, McGonagall raised her eyes to peer at him over the top of her glasses.  
  
"If you insist on falling asleep during the day, Mr Potter," she said slowly, "May I suggest you use your lunch hour, not my class."  
  
"I'm sorry," he said softly.  
  
Her face was stony, "You will be if you fail your exams because you were not paying attention in class."  
  
That sent a bolt of fear right through Harry. If he failed, he'd have to leave Hogwart's. And then where would he go? Back to the Dursley's for good? The prospect had never occurred to him before. While he might endanger his place here in other ways, he'd never considered the possibility that he might simply fail. What would people think of the great Harry Potter then?  
  
McGonagall seemed to sense his distress because she softened slightly. "Is something troubling you? Perhaps Quidditch is too much on top of your studies," she suggested.  
  
"Oh, no," Harry immediately protested, afraid she might stop him playing if she thought that, "I just.....I didn't sleep very well last night, that's all."  
  
Make that 'didn't sleep at all' and he'd be telling the truth. The figure in the tower had soon disappeared from view and, shivering, Harry had returned to bed. It was late and he was tired.  
  
Despite this, he'd lain there awake for most of the night, wondering who it could have possibly been and what they were doing. When he did momentarily manage to drift off, he had nightmares of imposing figures in black cloaks stealing into the room and raising their wands to strike him down. Finding himself frozen in place, he cried out for help but everyone around him just slept on as if they hadn't heard him. Or didn't care. Just as the figure was about to strike, he awoke with a start, sweating and heart pounding.  
  
In the early hours of the morning, he had resolved to tell Ron and Hermione about it that day. Perhaps even go to Dumbledore and report it to him. Those thoughts were somewhat of a comfort to him.  
  
But, as with all things, the sun rose and chased the shadows cowering into the corners, and suddenly what had seemed so frightening the night before began to look stupid.  
  
He didn't know what that tower was used for. It could have been some sort of worker going about their nightly work. Perhaps it was where they kept some strange animal for Care Of Magical Creatures, and the thing simply needed feeding.  
  
In any case, the notion of going to Dumbledore faded from his mind. What would the venerable wizard think of Harry if he ran to him at the slightest thing? That he was a coward who needed reassurance? That he couldn't take care of himself? Or, worst of all, that he thought himself important enough to warrant being danger from some sort of dark force?  
  
Even the idea of telling Ron and Hermione seemed stupid. They'd only tell him he was over reacting. They'd probably think he was losing it or something. That last year's run in with Voldemort had really done him in.  
  
So he'd stayed silent. Not that he really felt any better for it.  
  
"May I suggest then, that you get an early night tonight, hmm?" McGonagall said, in that stern tone which managed to somehow betray a hint of kindness.  
  
He nodded, still in his own thoughts and began to move away.  
  
"You're a good student, Harry," she said, making him stop in his tracks, "You have a sharp mind and a developing talent. It's your duty to yourself to make the best of it."  
  
Harry smiled. Praise like that from McGonagall was hard to come by. She never said anything she didn't mean.  
  
"Thank you," he said quietly, a little embarrassed, moving away again.  
  
"Oh and Mr Potter?" she called after him, returning to her marking once more, "A foot and a half report on Roland's doctrine on my desk by Friday, please."  
  
He should have expected it really. McGonagall was always hard but fair.  
  
"Yes, Professor," Harry said with a small sigh, hurrying to reach the door before she could give him anything else to do. 


	3. Neville's New Look

Author's Note: Having gotten onto the third book since I wrote this, I realised that there's a slightly similar scene there where Neville ruins a potion. I assure you, this is entirely coincidently. Honest...You believe me, don't you?  
  
  
  
NEVILLE'S NEW LOOK  
  
If luck had been with Harry somewhat during Transfiguration, it had quite abandoned him by the time Potions came round.  
  
As always, Snape was in a foul mood. And Harry, sitting there yawning his head off, was the perfect outlet for his peevish disposition.  
  
He probably would have been all right had he been working with Ron or Hermione, but he ended up paired with Neville and disaster was only a matter of time.  
  
Neville was collecting and sorting the ingredients, while Harry was stirring them together in the cauldron. They were meant to be concocting a plant growth potion and demonstrating it on the geraniums they had each been given.  
  
Harry continued to stir listlessly, his mind elsewhere, as Neville put the ingredients in. Knowing Neville's talent for getting things quite spectacularly wrong, Harry would usually carefully watch everything the other boy did. In wizard studies, getting things wrong was not only bad for your marks, it was also potentially hazardous to your well-being. Who knew what you could mix together? He recalled one of their first Charms classes last year. They had only meant to be floating a feather. Neville, on the other hand, had said just slightly the wrong word, resulting in a rather impressive explosion and a very frazzled looking Neville.  
  
Today, however, Harry had other things on his mind and he paid no attention to what the other boy was doing until a worried voice said his name.  
  
"Er....Harry?"  
  
He blinked his eyes a few times, focusing them away from dark, hooded figures and back into the dungeon. He looked up at Neville who was peering cautiously into the cauldron.  
  
"Is it meant to be bubbling like that?"  
  
Harry frowned and stood up, sneaking a look into the cauldron himself. No, it shouldn't. And it should be green, not purple.  
  
His mind panicking just a little, Harry backed away a few cautious steps. He'd best call Snape over. While the prospect of him sneering over them as he corrected their mistakes was hardly a pleasant one, he was sensible enough to know they shouldn't be messing around with things they didn't understand.  
  
Neville, however, seemed to have no such sense of self preservation. He peered closer into the cauldron, a puzzled look on his face.  
  
"Neville," Harry warned, "Maybe you shouldn't get so clos-".  
  
Which was when the contents of the cauldron erupted and sprayed directly into the unfortunate boy's face.  
  
There were startled squeals from a number of the girl's in the room as the area around Harry and Neville was doused in a bulbous cloud of purple smoke. By the time it had cleared, Snape was towering over Harry and some of the other students had gathered round to see what they'd done.  
  
As soon as they saw, the Gryffindor's - fearful of Snape - tried to suppress their giggling. Meanwhile the Slytherin's were lead in raucous guffaws by Draco Malfoy. Harry looked concerned and a little scared. Snape appeared coldly furious. Neville simply looked confused.  
  
But that was probably because he was the only one who couldn't see that his eyebrows had grown about five times in size and turned bright purple.  
  
"Mr Longbottom," Snape said, coldly, the laughter immediately dying down, "I suggest you remove yourself to the infirmary. Escort him up there, Miss Granger and explain to Madam Pomfrey what happened. And if you do not return in five minutes I will be taking points from Gryffindor."  
  
Herimone jumped as though she'd been prodded with a cattle pole. Taking charge of Neville she lead him out of the room, as he worriedly asked her what had happened to him.  
  
Snape turned his gaze on Harry and held it there for a very long moment. Harry was afraid he might be turned to stone.  
  
"Pray tell me, Potter, how exactly you managed that remarkable feat." Snape had a very soft voice, but somehow managed to infuse it with the maximum amount of menace.  
  
"I....I don't know, sir," he stuttered, wondering how he could be so brave in front of a horror like Voldemort, and yet Snape could send him to pieces.  
  
"I had given you the ingredients," Snape continued, still pinning him with his gaze, "The only error can have been in the stirring. Who was stirring your potion, Potter?"  
  
Harry stomach sank to his toes. This definitely couldn't be good. "I was, sir."  
  
"Were you stirring it clockwise or anti-clockwise?"  
  
Harry blinked a couple of times in surprise. Did it make a difference? Stirring was stirring, right? He couldn't remember Snape saying anything about the direction of the stir.  
  
"Well?" Snape prompted, sharply.  
  
Harry sighed, admitting defeat and resigned to his fate, "I don't remember, sir."  
  
Snape was silent for a moment. The rest of the class were completely still, watching with a kind of sick fascination.  
  
"I see," he said, almost emotionlessly, and for a small wonderful moment Harry thought that would be the end of it as Snape moved back behind his desk, motioning for the class to return to their seats.  
  
As if Snape would ever be so kind to him.  
  
"Well, Potter," he said, with something akin to satisfaction on his face, "Since you seem utterly bored of my class - bored enough to yawn your way through it and then make a beginner's mistake - I feel it is my duty to make you take a more active interest. Cleaning out the equipment cupboard and its contents should be a fine start, I think. Come straight here after your evening meal."  
  
Harry inwardly groaned. Detention with Snape and an extra assignment? Whoever that hooded figure was, Harry would quite like to throttle them right now. 


	4. The Equipment Cupboard

THE EQUIPMENT CUPBOARD  
  
Harry usually looked forward to meal times at Hogwarts. He certainly ate much better and much more freely here than he had ever done at the Dursley's. But dinner today, like everything else, seemed less enjoyable. He guessed it was the evening's detention hanging over his head, looming ever closer. The mere thought of Snape could always be relied to put a sour note on things.  
  
Ron was chirpy as always - annoyingly so in Harry's opinion. Hermione, who had got 98 percent in her Charms homework, was still preening in delight.  
  
"I'm sure Snape didn't say anything about how we were supposed to stir it", Harry said bitterly, pushing his food around his plate, bring his two friends' attention away from Fred and George who were no doubt plotting something.  
  
He been complaining about the unfairness of his punishment all afternoon. It wasn't only his fault, Neville had been there as well. But, Ron had pointed out, Harry hadn't appeared in front of the Slytherins with enormous, purple, bushy eyebrows. Neville had been punished enough in his opinion.  
  
"He didn't say anything", Hermione stated matter of factly, "Our set text tells us that all plant related potions must be stirred clockwise."  
  
"Yeah, honestly, Harry," said Ron, taking a sarcastic jibe at her, "Some of us have actually bothered to read it from cover to cover, you know. Twice. Before the start of term."  
  
She was well used to his remarks by now and no longer even slightly offended by them. If Ron was content to do just enough to get by, that was his problem.  
  
"Well, Ron," she said, just as caustically, "I suppose some good will come of your version of studying. You'll be able to sell your books as 'mint condition, never opened, only used for propping up desk'."  
  
Ron's face reddened slightly. "Oh, shut up," he snapped back, unable to think of a snappy response.  
  
"I wonder how Neville is....," Harry pondered, not really listening to them. Poor Neville had ended up looking ridiculous. He hoped it wasn't permanent.  
  
"He's fine," Herminone comforted, perceptive to perhaps a little underlying guilt, "Madam Pomfrey knew exactly what to do, like she always does. Said he'll be back to normal by tomorrow. She had this ointment she was going to make up. I would have liked to stayed and watched, but you heard what Snape said and I didn't want to test his good will."  
  
"What good will?" Ron said with a grimace.  
  
Herminone joined him in the look, "Precisely."  
  
--  
  
Harry found no evidence of Snape's goodwill when he arrived at detention either. The teacher hadn't even bothered to show up. Just left him a bucket, a cloth and a note full of implications concerning the horrible things he'd inflict upon Harry if the cupboard and its contents weren't spotless by the time he'd finished.  
  
The dungeon classroom was cold and dark. There was only one torch burning in the room, and it didn't exactly give off any heat. Harry found himself shivering as soon as he stepped in there. But he didn't dare go back to his dormitory for a jumper. If Snape should come along and not find him here.....  
  
Deciding the quicker he started, the quicker he could see about that early night Professor McGonagall had suggested, Harry headed for the cupboard. Upon opening it, however, the word 'quick' immediately erased itself from his vocabulary, as did the phrase 'early night'. The word 'sleep' was in danger of disappearing too.  
  
He'd be lucky if he finished before he graduated.  
  
The equipment cupboard seemed to contain everything, including the kitchen sink and then some. Cauldrons, vials, racks, tubes, tripods, burners and dozens of things he didn't recognise. One shelf was fully of boxes containing different plant extracts and parts commonly used in potions. Everything was covered in a layer of grime that looked as if it had been collecting there since the dawn of time and somebody frequently emptied a coal scuttle on it for good measure.  
  
Maybe this was where Snape kept his goodwill, he mused. At the back, under a pile of cobwebs, labelled 'Rare Substance. Never Used'. Harry smiled at the thought - he'd never find it, of course. It would be far too small to spot with the naked eye.  
  
For a short moment Harry felt a flash of guilt about thinking such things. Snape had saved his life last year when Quirrell had tried to knock him from his broom during his first Quidditch match. The man couldn't be all that bad. It was just a shame he seemed to feel it necessary to make the life he'd saved as miserable as possible.  
  
Setting immediately to work at a brisk pace - hoping it would warm him up - Harry wondered how long he was expected to do this.  
  
'Until you finish', came the response in his own head. Snape never went with half measures.  
  
He scrubbed for all he was worth, often having to stop to change arms when the other became so tired that he could barely lift it. His knuckles were soon rubbed raw by the friction and he grimaced, hoping Hermione was still up when he finished. She was a miracle worker when it came to cuts, grazes, bumps and bruises.  
  
Trying to finish as quickly as possible, he scrubbed a little over enthusiastically and knocked one of the boxes over. It contained a small bunch of Snap Dragon flowers. What Harry had never realised was that they were 'snap' by name and 'snap' by nature. By the time he had managed to round them up the vicious little plants, he had a number of cuts on his fingers to match the grazes.  
  
As he cleaned what he hoped was the last thing, he had an over whelming urge never to see a wash bucket again.  
  
Scrambling in the depths of the cupboard, checking ten times over that he hadn't missed anything - it was more than his life was worth - Harry removed his hand to find a large spider had clambered on him for a bit of an investigation.  
  
Body the size of a milk bottle top and legs like pipe cleaners, he was a bit of a monster. Harry didn't mind, however. There had been plenty of spiders in the cupboard under the stairs and he'd gotten used to them.  
  
He smiled briefly - maybe he should lock Ron in a cupboard with a load of spiders. Maybe that'd cure him of his fear. And if it didn't, it would certainly make Harry laugh.  
  
Walking to the far end of the classroom, he placed his hand down on the floor and let the thing scuttle off into one of the dark corners. It'd be far happier in the relative warmth here than the chill outside.  
  
He returned to the cupboard again and began the task of replacing all the equipment he had removed into exactly the right places. All in all it had taken him a little over three and a half hours. All that was left to do now was rearrange the plant extracts according to the faded diagram pinned inside the door.  
  
As he worked, Harry found himself wondering what half of them did. Things in the wizard world never ceased to amaze him. Roast mudlewort? Sun-dried yandle flower? Elephant pressed hickleman leaves? If only they had a different teacher, he might have actually enjoyed Potions.  
  
He was almost done - having made sure that he was extra careful with the Snap Dragon, who could be heard nipping their jaws in their box, wanting another go at his fingers - when he realised that one box was missing. Binding weed. He'd heard of it. Almost unbreakable and impervious to fire, it was often used to weave the straps that held Bludgers in their boxes. There'd also been some talking of it being once used to tie up dragons, but he wasn't sure he believed that. You'd have to get pretty near and work lightning quick to avoid being toasted.  
  
Peering closer inside the cupboard, Harry noted that there was one square of shelf that was slightly dusty. Most of the surface was spotless, having been protected from the dust by the boxes. The small dusty patch was testament to the fact that the binding weed had been removed just recently.  
  
And whoever had done it, he realised, hadn't checked it out on the list. Either they had simply forgotten - which with the threat of Snape's icy wrath was unlikely - or it had been taken without permission. It had been stolen.  
  
For a moment, the previous thought of dragons made Harry consider Hagrid. He prayed to everyone and anyone who would listen that the giant man hadn't been foolish enough to get himself one of the things and try to contain it with the stolen binding weed.  
  
It seemed unlikely however. As much as Hagrid wanted a dragon, he appeared to have learnt his lesson with Norbert. He was lucky to have a roof still over his head after that little fire-breathing monstrosity.  
  
Another rational explanation would be a student had taken it for a practical joke. It would be just like one of the Slytherins to tie up some helpless first year in unbreakable twine and leave him mercilessly in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.  
  
But again, it seemed unlikely. When the victim was discovered, so would be the bind weed. Everyone would know where it came from, and even the Slytherins wouldn't push Snape that far.  
  
Out of options and ideas, Harry's mind made a startling connection. He didn't know how or why, but he was certain that the missing bind weed had something to do with the dark hooded figure.  
  
At Hogwarts, strange things were rarely unconnected. 


	5. An Unlikely Ally and An Unlikely Enemy

An Unlikely Ally And An Unlikely Enemy  
  
It was getting on for midnight when Harry started making his way back to the Gryffindor Tower. The equipment cupboard was spotlessly clean. He didn't know if it lived up to Snape's high standards since the teacher hadn't bothered to show up to check and Harry didn't want to wait. The missing bind weed was bothering him. On its own it would have been nothing to worry about, but in conjunction with the mysterious dark figure and Harry's own uneasy feelings, it bothered him.  
  
He'd made up his mind to definitely tell Ron and Hermione this time. Either they'd agree with him and they'd form a plan of action, or they'd manage to convince him he was overacting and put his mind at rest. Both options were preferable to worrying on his own.  
  
A lot of the students didn't like wandering through the creepy corridors at night, but Harry had gotten used to it. The suddenly lively paintings no longer bothered him, and he was never startled to walk around a corner and right into - or through - one of the ghosts.  
  
Even so, when he heard a voice suddenly dart out of the semi-darkness ahead, he jumped slightly.  
  
".....not up there," he heard Filch's voice say, missing the beginning of the sentence.  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
That was Dumbledore. That was strange, he decided. As far as he was aware, Filch was the only one who wandered around at night. For him to have Dumbledore with him, something important - or serious - must have happened.  
  
"I've checked the entire tower, Headmaster," Filch said, clearly irritated, "There is no one there."  
  
Dumbledore muttered something Harry couldn't hear before adding out loud: "We'll have to search the school. I'll inform Professor McGonagall. We may need her help. Don't let anyone see you, Mr Filch. You know how important secrecy is in this matter."  
  
Harry could hear them approaching the corner in front of him and he made a split second decision. He dived in the door to the Charms room on his left, pressing his ear against the thick oak door so he could hear them as they passed. It would have been easy to just walk past them, pretending he hadn't overheard a thing. It wasn't as if he was doing anything wrong - he was simply returning to his dormitory after detention. But the words 'tower' and 'secrecy' in the same sentence were too potent to ignore. Whoever Harry had seen in that tower, was known of and had evidently gone missing. Dumbledore knew about it and apparently it was a secret - from everyone bar Filch and Professor McGonagall. What could be so terrible that even the teachers weren't allowed to know?  
  
Part of his mind told him that this was none of his business. He had no reason to believe this was anything to do with him. What right did he really have to be investigating an secret Dumbledore wished to keep? And yet there was another part telling him that he had to know what was going on. Somehow he felt this was important. And right.  
  
He listened as they walked past. Dumbledore instructed Filch to begin by checking this floor. He would go and fetch McGonagall and they would do the first and third floors.  
  
"Don't worry," Filch said, with an essence of twisted satisfaction in his voice, "I'll find 'em."  
  
Harry almost felt sorry for the black hooded figure. He'd hate to think what would happen if Filch found them.  
  
He waited in the classroom until the voices had faded away, then counted to a hundred before cautiously emerging. If Filch was on this floor, he certainly didn't want to stay here. Besides, he had reasoned, if the hooded figure was being pursued, surely they would be trying to escape, which would mean making their way to the first floor.  
  
As he crept along quietly, heading towards the main staircase, Harry again wondered why he was doing this. What on earth made him think it was a good idea? For all he knew, the figure could be an escaped madman or something. He could be really putting himself in danger. But again he had that strange, unexplainable sense of certainty. He was supposed to be doing this.  
  
Making his way down the large main staircase, Harry was careful to keep to the centre, carpeted section so as to reduce his noise. As well as scanning around him for suspicious hooded people, he also remembered to keep an eye on the floor for the piercing eyes of Mrs Norris. Running into that cat would be almost as bad as running into Filch himself.  
  
Harry set about quickly searching the Entrance Hall and the rooms adjoining it. He remembered Dumbledore's words about he and McGonagall checking the rest of the floors. He had to hurry.  
  
The corridor that lead down to the dungeon was empty, but that was hardly surprising. He'd only just come from there and he didn't think anyone culd have snuck past him so easily.  
  
Next, he tried to the Great Hall. This was easy to check because there was really no place to hide in there. The only difficultly was the poor lighting. The floating candles were all bobbing in the air, but extinguished. Fortunately, the enchanted ceiling held a bright moon tonight. That gave Harry enough light to check around and under all the tables, including the teacher's one. He was a little perplexed to see a very small chair that was at least a foot or so higher than the others, before he realised it must belong to little Professor Flitwick.  
  
He paused momentarily at the huge, throne-like chair that Dumbledore sat on. It was an impressive looking piece, but had suffered with age. Its gold covering was chipped and dirtied in places, the green marble panels that covered different sections were scratched and marked, and the once rich, gold weave cloth covering the seat and back were badly faded and torn. Harry wondered where it had originally come from.  
  
Deciding he had no time for this sight-seeing, he hurried back to the door and quietly re-entered the main hall. He was about to head for the next door along when he felt the presence of another person. Immediately halting in his tracks, he looked carefully around but saw no one. Well, if you didn't count the girl in the painting who was closing her cottage curtains.  
  
He was clearly nervous and the danger of getting caught was starting to play tricks on his mind. He should go back to the dormitory before it was too late. He'd tried at least, but the hooded figure could be anywhere in this vast castle or its grounds.  
  
His foot hadn't even made it to the floor for him to take a pace, when a creaking was heard. Frozen in mid-step, Harry watched in something akin to amazement as the front door opened just a crack.  
  
For a long moment, nothing happened and he began to wonder if maybe it had simple not been shut properly and had fallen open.  
  
That was when the hooded figure slipped inside.  
  
Like the last time Harry had seen him, the figure was creeping furtively - as though he was afraid of being found. He was also a lot smaller than he would have imagined - in fact, he was about an inch shorter than Harry.  
  
The figure paused at the door, turning to slowly shut it again. Harry frowned. If you knew you were being looked for, why would you come back to the castle where those who were looking for you were bound to be? Unless, of course, you were that desperate to do what you came here to do, that you were willing to risk it.  
  
Intrigued and slightly annoyed at the figure's audacity, Harry did something very stupid. He dashed over behind them and, without hesitation, he reached out and yanked away the hood. He half expected to see Voldemort's twisted face staring back at him and he readied himself to cry out for help. But all he saw was a mass of straight, dark hair. The figure involuntarily let out a startled squeal and spun to face Harry.  
  
He froze. It wasn't a horrible madman at all.  
  
It was a girl.  
  
About his age. Pretty with dark, straight hair, and large brown eyes. The moonlight on her face made gave her skin a blue tinge, making her appear rather ethereal.  
  
Harry found himself confused. She didn't appear to be a threat. Who was she? She was a student, so why was she here? Why was she wandering about, why was she a secret and why was Dumbledore so desperate to find her?  
  
He didn't get a chance to ask any of his questions though. Voices could suddenly be heard coming their way, the noise bouncing around the stone walls. The girl in the cottage painting tutted in annoyance at being disturbed.  
  
People had obviously been alerted by the girl's startled cry.  
  
She gasped in what appeared to be horror. Without warning, she grabbed Harry by the robes and dragged his shocked form over to the nearest door. Opening it, she shoved him inside and slammed it shut again. Just moments later, Filch's oozing voice could be heard.  
  
"Well, well, well. What do with have here?"  
  
The girl was silent, but he could hear her step away from the door as if she were trying not to draw Filch's attention to where she had hidden Harry.  
  
"We've been looking for you, my dear," he said, menacingly, "Did you really think you could give us the slip?"  
  
"No," she said quietly.  
  
Harry couldn't help but notice that she sounded afraid. He reached inside his pocket and closed his fingers around his wand, ready to jump out and help her. Fortunately, another voice joined them - Dumbledore. That could only be a good thing.  
  
"Well done, Mr Filch," he said, his voice sounding oddly tight.  
  
Harry frowned and crouched carefully down, peering through the keyhole. What he saw shocked him to the core.  
  
Dumbledore moved passed Filch and grabbed the girl by the arm, quite roughly. The look on his face was simply furious.  
  
"What did you think you were doing?" he said, hotly.  
  
"I.....I just...I need to get out for a while," she replied, her voice shaking.  
  
"Idiotic girl!" Dumbledore said harshly, shaking her arm slightly, "Do you really think that we are going to let you wander around the school?"  
  
Again, the girl stayed silent.  
  
Dumbledore let out an angry sigh and shoved her towards Filch. "Take her back to the tower. Don't let anyone see you. And make sure she can't get out this time."  
  
Filch nodded, knowing better than to stay around too long when Dumbledore was annoyed. He quickly pulled the unresisting girl away.  
  
Dumbledore stood there for a moment, wiping a hand across his face. He looked as though he was under a great deal of stress.  
  
As he walked away, Harry sank to the floor and stared at his knees, shocked. He didn't move for a long time.  
  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED.... 


End file.
